My Own Private Idaho
by Dee12
Summary: {Btvs Post 'Chosen', Ats: Post 'Destiny} Another Christmas, on another Hellmouth somewhere other than Cleveland. SB. Chapter 5 blows money on leftover X-mas decorations at K-Mart to complete the tale!
1. Prologue

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Disclaimer: He who created them, owns them. She who borrows to write fiction, doesn't. And he who smelt it, dealt it…

Summary: {A little Post-Chosen Christmas-y goodness. Post Ats: 'Destiny' for reference points} Another Christmas on another hellmouth – somewhere other than Cleveland. S/B – aren't they all?

Part: 1 of 5

Author's Note: I don't usually do holiday fics, but I felt like spreading some Christmas cheer. This is just the set up – prologue, really (or hasty attempt to explain life post-Sunnydale, whatever) and the story in all of its holiday glory begins in the next chapter. The title is taken from the Gus Van Sant film of the same name. Feedback is always appreciated, loved, and used for various egotistical purposes…

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Prologue: Evil Potatoes

Boise, Idaho sits on a hellmouth.

Not many people know that. I'm sure when you usually think of Boise (if you're ever _insanely _bored enough to think about Boise), potatoes are involved in some way, shape or form.

Did anyone have any idea they were _evil_ potatoes?

In theory, I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm the only slayer ever afforded the luxury of retirement – well, not counting Faith…

Ok, amend that – I'm the _only_ slayer who's never done a stint in the pokey, to be afforded the luxury of retirement. And I happily did the relaxing thing. For a while, anyway.

A snow globe of Windsor Castle and a near moldy plate of bangers and mash are quite possibly all that remains of my European downtime. Before now, I never understood why you would run across the odd little, old man or woman bagging groceries or building your Doublemeat Medley with care. Not when they could be running you off the road in those huge winnabagos or at home sitting in their laze-e-boys, praising pension plans and Bob Barker…

But that's the thing about retirement –

It's the snoozefest to end all snoozefests.

The first month or so is golden. You get these visions of the simple life (minus a Hilton chasing various farm animals) that are all about staying up late, hagen daze, minimal bathing, and being make-up free. 

Dawn and I moved into a nice, little apartment (I didn't live in 'Merry Old' long enough to allow me to call it a "flat", without feeling like an ass) in the North End of London. We had goldfish, a plush couch, and the BBC – which led to my taping _every_ Eddie Izzard special known to man.

Willow and Kennedy lived with us for a while until Wills heard the spiritual, Wiccan call of the wild, and decided to return to the coven. Though, it was hard getting used to not having my Willow just two bedroom doors away, the wisdom of Dawn helped to put the move in a different light:

__

"Look at it this way – Willow leaving, not a happy thing. But, Kennedy going with her, means there'll be one less, slightly unpleasant person to share a bathroom with."

There was no arguing with that logic.

Xander stayed in the states and treated us to a phone call at least once a week. Modesto's nice and surprisingly non-demon-y, despite the number people who seem to disappear from the area. His construction business is off to a great start. And the girl he's dating is neither nor has ever been a demon.

Faith took off for Spain. And since her decision came right after an Antonio Banderas movie marathon, I'm guessing beautiful architecture and cities rich with history weren't the selling point – I could be wrong, tho…

Giles and Robin began rebuilding the Council. Compared to its former self, the Council now is just a mom-and-pop operation, not many Watchers were left to fill out the tweed and a lot of valuable texts were lost when the old regime crumbled (literally). 

And I felt like I'd found my niche in London. I was the American who would bite the head off of any cook who dumped beans all over her eggs, and the little blonde girl who had the nerve to ask "what's so funny about Absolutely Fabulous, anyway?" 

England's great – if you ignore blood sausage and slack dental hygiene. But, by Guy Fawkes Day, I knew I'd had my fill of life across the pond.

Way back in June, Giles offered me a position as a Watcher and I turned it down without a moment's hesitation. Could you blame me?! Gore and death wasn't my life anymore. I didn't have to wash blood out of my clothes or try to conceal bruises the size of Granada. Never had to breathe in a pound of vampire dust or drag the body of some inconveniently un-poof-y demon to a place where hopefully it could turn to mulch undiscovered.

All Retirement!Buffy had to worry about was the skyrocketing mobile phone bill (Dawn never quite grasped the "free nights and weekends" concept) and missing the latest ep of Trading Rooms.

Strangely enough, there was something about watching Giles attempting to burn the effigy of a man that restored a sense of want for a purpose in my life again. Or maybe it was finishing off that fifth box of toffee in a week that jarred me back from the land of slacking…can't decide…

Toffee, Guy Fawkes straw puppet – whatever. The point is I finally came to the realization I would always be a player in the fight between good and evil, even if I'm the one doing the watching this time around.

That night, after informing he and Dawn of my decision, Giles put up a map of the other hellmouths around the world, blindfolded me, and unceremoniously handed me a dart –

It landed on Idaho.

Did I mention I have shit aim?

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"Idaho – you're in luck, Buffy. There's all ready a slayer in the Boise area."

I blinked. How the hell had I managed to miss Hawaii?! 

"**Idaho**?!"

Dawn smiled brightly. "No, **you-da-ho**," she lamely joked and I turned to her, tilting my head,

"That joke still gonna be funny when you're living it up in the greater Boise area?"

Her face fell. "Oh, god! You're **not** making me go! Are you?!"

Three days and one fuming, silent Dawn later, our bags were packed.

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To Be Continued…


	2. Decking the Halls

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Part: 2 of 5

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Decking the Halls…

Do you know how many times a person can listen to the *NSYNC Christmas album before the need to start a body parts collection takes over?

I do.

The answer: around five. 

This morning alone, Andrew's spinned it twenty times (insanity – thy name is Buffy).

Justin Timberlake's falsetto crooning 'Silent Night' is blaring out of my stereo and I donning my Vickie Secrets robe and fuzzy slippers, am forced to get out of my _extremely_ warm bed to pad down the hall towards the living room. Towards a very dead, little Christmas elf who'll soon be missing a finger or two…or three or four, but really, who's counting?

Andrew's wearing this stupid Santa hat (could've sworn I burned it) and hanging garland on the fireplace – _my _fireplace, that I distinctly want garland free –

I _knew_ I should've left the Brits to deal with his scrawny ass, but Andrew's kinda like a stray puppy that you find wandering on the side of the road. You pet 'em, you give 'em a bite of your Snickers, and then he follows you home and pees all over your rug. 

Believe me, I tried to get rid of him. _Everyone_ tried. Andy managed to spend three months in his very own, London flat before he moved out (something to do with his landlord's supreme hatred of Red Dwarf – I think) and bunked with Giles – sadly for only two and a half months of wacky 'odd couple' antics.

I couldn't bear to see him suffer any more and broke like Humpty Dumpty when Giles begged me to take the munchkin back to the states. According to him, by trying to play secretary, Andrew was getting in the way of Council business (i.e. the 'great file cabinet fire'), and apparently there had been more than one instance of him walking in on Giles in the shower…

Giles. Shower. Naked. Naked!Giles. Ugh! I need a moment to restore my belief that Giles doesn't even _have_ man parts…

Breathe in. Breathe out… Breathe in. Breathe out…

Moment over. I'm good.

Andrew doesn't notice me standing directly behind him. He's singing along with Justin at the top of his lungs and briefly stops hanging the garland to do a Christina Aguilera hand move, complete with voice inflection…

"I thought I said nothing Christmas-y," I snap and can't help letting out a snort when he squeals and ends up ripping the garland and surprisingly really pretty red bows to the ground.

He scrambles to turn the stereo down (7th layer of hell, home to violent assassins, tyrants, blasphemers, and 'Under My Tree' on repeat…), and there's this look of panic on his face. Definitely a 'puppy who piddled the carpet' kind of look…

Knew that stray dog analogy was spot on.

"Buffy!" he shrieks my name and gives me a lopsided smile. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"No. Totally the fault of Lance and JC…" (thank you Dawn for going through that 'five-dancing boys _is so_ a band!' phase)

"Their rendition of 'Winter Wonderland' is almost perfect, isn't it?"

All I have to do is fold my arms across my chest and he knows…

Puppy-look #105 (remorseful, please don't take away my milkbones) is locked into place.

"I know you really didn't want to do the Christmas thing, but a little decoration won't hurt." Andrew smiles like a greasy used car salesman. "Just the gar-land…" He painfully drags the word out, "I won't even plug in the light-up Baby Jesus'…" 

(_Jesus_'?! He bought _Jesus'? _Or is that Jesusi? ) "No."

"I see you're still doing your Grinch impersonation." 

Great. Early morning snark from Dawn – my holiday's off to a _wonderful_ start!

"Could've sworn we all agreed not to make a big show of Christmas this year…"

Dawn gives me this look that screams teenage indignation and kinda makes me worry if my head will explode. "_Garland_ is a big show?"

"It's more _show_ than I wanted." 

"…The Grinch's heart was three sizes too small…" Andrew says offhandedly and I have to glare at him, for I _am_ the Christmas Nazi…

And Christmas Nazi is on a mission not to play into 25% off sales or battle bloodthirsty mothers over the last _Tickle Me Elmo_ (for Uncle Dave's little pile of stunted growth), and Christmas Nazi, _will not_ under any circumstance, leave milk and cookies for some jolly, fat bastard who…

Is that – _Jingle Bells_?!

My mobile's vibrating all over the kitchen table with that tune pouring out of it and Andrew lets out this high pitched squeal that I think is supposed to be a laugh –

"Cute, isn't it?"

Breathe in… Breathe out… ringing phone… kill Andy later…

"Hello?" I answer. "Claire?!" A quick glance at the clock – it's flashing _6:30 a.m_. Claire _actually_ knows _6:30 a.m. _is a real time?! "_You're_ calling me at six in the morning – you _do_ know it's morning…"

Giles created some pretty high standards where the Watcher gig is concerned and I like to think of my three weeks on the job so far as being very fruitful –

"You're _what_?! How – wait, never mind the 'how', I'll beat the explanation out of you later." Running a weary hand through my tangled hair, I sigh, "Give me twenty minutes."

Even if my Charge is currently being held on five hundred dollars bond at the Boise County jail – still fruitful…

"What's going on?" Dawn asks concernedly.

Giles and _hell_ even Wesley never had to bail me out of jail! And I don't remember anyone mentioning having to put your house up as collateral as a possibility of the job when I took the oath!

"That wacky Claire, just keeps ya guessin!" I deadpan as I head over to the coffee maker. Must have caffeine – must have sweet nectar brought from little Hispanic men on the back of donkeys…

"That was Claire?!" Dawn exclaims. "Claire's awake before two in the afternoon?!"

"Funny thing…" I begin while pouring water into the back of the coffee maker (Juan Valdez! I am thy queen!), "the Boise County jail is open twenty-four-seven."

Andrew gasps. "She's in jail!"

The sound of my brew – uh – brewing calms me. Like being doused with spray from the shower that's exactly the right temp, not so hot as to scorch an entire top layer of skin and not cold enough to give you pneumonia.

I glance over my shoulder at a still stunned Dawn and Andrew and calmly ask them. "You think my Slayer being locked up in jail will be a bad reflection on me?" 

**__**

To Be Continued…


	3. Ghost of Christmas Past

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Part: 3 of 5

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Author's Note: *Clears throat and takes a seat* **Speaker**: Desire, thank you so much for taking the time to do our Q&A session. **Me**: No prob fire away when ready. **S: **Question (1), in Chapter 2, there are a couple of instances where Buffy calls Andrew "Andy", is that a typo on your part? **Me**: No, not at all. It **is** the Andrew we all know and love (scarily love if you're me), but this is written in Buffy (POV) and it seemed like a very Buffy thing to have her call him this a couple of times. Kind of like the way she's referred to Xander as 'Xand' and Willow as 'Will' or 'Wills' in the past. 

****

S: Question (2), this is a Spuffy fic right? So where the hell is Spike?! Why god are you holding out on us?! **Me: **(stands and begins to back away slowly) Uh, yeah, of course this is Spuffy. Everything I write is Spuffy. Spike wasn't referenced or hasn't made an appearance in the first two Chapters, because this is post 'Chosen' (so he's all in LA and Buffy doesn't know he's alive). And the first couple of chapters required a setup for what Buffy's life is like in this whole new state and town, with this new job she really doesn't seem to be achieving greatness at. You'll see Spike – trust me. And there'll be lots of unnecessary smchoopy-ness and sex, sex, sex! Um, sex as in the fade-out, next day…what?! It's PG-13 people! What do you want me to do?! **S: **Our last question here for Desire is – (in the back of the room, someone stands up and rips their coat off to reveal a T-Shirt with Buffy and Angel on it surrounded by little hearts) "Buffy and Angel forever! You **can't** stop **TRUE LOVE**!" **S: **Someone get the BANGEL out of here! I thought security was supposed to be tight!

Also – Anya's 'Christmas Spectacular 2001' is a tiny little reference to the first fic I ever wrote. Great with the comedic moments but, terrible, terrible, terrible! Be glad you never read it. 

**

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Ghost of Christmas Past

I'm flying down the highway, as wide-awake as awake can get. It's either the five cups of coffee I managed to down before heading out or Juan started lacing the Colombian beans with yellowjackets and no-doze.

It's raining but it isn't cold enough to snow. The temp's hovering somewhere around thirty-six degrees and…

I miss him.

I crank up the radio with false hope that Billy Corgan screeching the chorus to 'Bullet with Butterfly Wings' will somehow drown out my thoughts. It doesn't. But I'm pretty good at repressing. Who needs to feel when you can be a robot who doesn't hurt?

I've done it for so long, but moments like this creep up on me – nagging at my occipital lobe (heh. Occipital lobe) waiting until I get alone –

Spike had this unhealthy love for Christmas. 

Not unhealthy in a he's asking Santa for blood and twenty new black T-shirts kind of way but…

" ' S'pose you're gonna tell me there's somethin' wrong with havin' a Christmas tree?"

"Angel told me vamps didn't celebrate Christmas as a rule." I have to smile.

Spike tilts his head and lets out a snort. "Captain Fun said that?!" he gasps in mock disbelief and dramatically brings a hand to his chest. "I for one _am_ shocked!"

"Still, you have to admit it's a little weird…"

He shrugs. "I like putting up the Charlie Brown tree – maybe even some garland if I'm feelin' festive…"

"Andrew's got Jesusi," I inform him, "and red bows."

I turn away from the road and catch him looking at me with a raised brow. "Jesusi?"

"Or Jesus'." I shrug. "Whatever."

I hear him laugh and I tear my attention away from the billboard just overhead: 

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Best Buffalo Wings in the Tri-County Area! TJ's Bar and Grill – Exit 52!

Spike flashes me this brilliant smile – the kind of smile I don't have many memories of seeing that often, and points to the highway sign. "Your exit's coming up, luv."

"Oh. Thanks." 

He's sprawled out in my passenger seat playing with his Zippo. I can see the flame flicker in the corner of my eye. "Don't think you're getting out of the Christmas tree explanation." I grin.

"All a part of William rearin' his ugly head," he chortles. "I dunno. S'like havin' a little piece of what I used to be. I'm not sayin' I still get dressed in my Sunday best and head off to Midnight Mass, but the tree's a nice little reminder of home. My mum." He turns to me, rueful smile on his lips. "Sometimes, it's hard to let go of the past, innit it?"

The Boise County jail is lit like an airport runway. The floodlights blind me and the moment I blink, Spike's gone. It's just me, a passenger seat occupied by Dawn's Spanish and Algebra II books, and an awful Hoobastank song pouring out of the one good speaker in my '95 Caprice Classic.

See what moments of non-repression get me? Nothin but heartache with a side of crazy.

Florescents make my retinas burn and the police station is bathed in them. The lighting creates this low buzz in the room that makes my ears hum and my skin crawl. So glad I chose to go makeup free – bet I'm the hottest mutant to ever grace the county jail's doorstep.

The desk cop at the counter sips his coffee and takes a big bite of a doughnut, getting powdered sugar in his thick, black mustache. (so, this is where Starsky disappeared to) "Can I help you?" he barks without looking at me.

"Yes, I'm here to…"

"Buffy Summers?"

I look pass the desk jockey and catch a surprisingly smiley face. Young, good-looking, short dark hair and eyes, five o'clock shadowy stubble – he's got this whole Benjamin Bratt-y thing going on. Benji Bratt Jr. extends his hand and I shake it,

"Yes, I am."

"Detective Morales." Benji's smile fades and he motions towards my dutiful Slayer who's handcuffed to a desk (makes a big-sister figure proud). "Take it you're here for the kid?"

(No, I came for the spicy Buffalo Wings I saw advertised back on exit 43) "Yeah," I say.

"How many times do I have to tell you! I'm _not_ a kid!" (That's Claire obviously continuing to make me look as good as possible.)

"And how many times do _I_ have to tell _you_, keeping your mouth shut is key to keeping your ass out of _more_ trouble!" Morales snaps back and my favorite half-pint quickly reverts to pouty face (wow, Benny's got bite).

"What did she do?" I ask sternly. I feel the need to get adult-y, so I cross my arms and send a few pointed looks in Claire's direction.

"Bar fight."

"Bar fight?!" (She's _fifteen_! Maybe I should get her a pack of cigarettes and a copy of Esquire when we get out of here…)

"I didn't start it!"

"You're barely old enough to baby-sit! How the _hell_ did you get into a bar?!" Benny gives me this look that screams Claire did a fairly good job of hiding her age and I let out a nervous laugh (commence back peddling). "Did I say _not_ old enough to baby-sit?! What I meant to say was, _too_ old – far, far too old. Hehe, Claire baby-sits me sometimes…"

Benny nods his pretty, little head and smiles briefly. "The guy's not pressing charges, so, you pay the bail, she's free to go." He shakes his head. "I just don't get how a little girl like that completely thrashed a three-hundred pound biker…"

(Three-hundred pounds _and_ a biker?! Way to go Claire) "I'll be sure to give her a good, stern talking to." 

Another doughnut connoisseur (minus a 70's porno mustache) unhandcuffs Claire and leads her around the maze of desks to my side. Putting a hand on her shoulder, I do my adult glaring thing to convey my massive disappointment in her (_three-hundred pounds…!!_) and turn my misguided, little Charge in the direction of the bench while I prepare to fill out a mountain of paperwork.

"Oh, Detective Morales…" I call over my shoulder (god, I'm not even sure if form 10a is in _English_!)

"Yes, Ms. Summers?"

Deeming form 10a as 'written in Sumerian', I smile at him. "Maybe you shouldn't underestimate 'little girls'."

**

"Okay – you've got five seconds to give me two _damn_ good reasons why I shouldn't kill you right now!"

Claire whips her auburn hair over her shoulder and despite the darkness I can see a glint in her green eyes. "One: I don't think Mr. Giles is gonna keep you in the running for 'Watcher of the Year' if you waste your Slayer…"

"…Two… One…"

"And! And – I'm _really_ sorry and swear this'll never happen again, Buffy."

I crank up the radio and pretend to be totally engrossed in Phantom Planet. I may love 'California' and some of the memories it stirs up (sunny skies, beaches, and unspeakable evil as far as the eye can see) along with a handy reminder to tape the _O.C._ this week. But right now, the song is a welcome distraction keeping me from grabbing the nearest blunt object…

"God, what _are _you?! Faith 9.0!" I shout over the music (heh, so much for distraction). "The Bad-Slayer shtick's already been done and much, much better. So, if you _actually_ want to make a difference, fine. All good and dandy – be prepared to work hard and learn to understand the power you have and how to use it. But, if you want to waste my time – let me know now! There's lots of other Slayers out there and I'm sure at least one of them actually gives a shit about this job."

Claire's quiet – a first really, the kid almost _always_ has something to say. The radio station's on commercial break, so I turn it off. Nothing left but deafening silence in between moments of the _swish_, _scrub_ of my whipers across the windshield. 

More silence. Quiet kills me – I hate it: especially when it comes from the direction of a _very_ talky person like Claire. The rain's starting to let up a bit and I glance at the billboards once again – only cause there's no other cars on the road to keep my mind occupied with license plate bingo.

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World's Largest Potato – Next Exit!

'Mommy I **Saw** The World's Largest Potato!' T-shirts and Novelty Mugs – Just Ahead!

Would I Go Off-Roading In An SUV That Didn't Meet Proper Emission Standards? – Jesus

"I want it." Claire speaks up so suddenly, that it scares the crap out of me and I end up jerking the wheel. Wide-eyed, she's clutching her door and looks at me with her mouth agape. "I didn't mean I wanted to _die_."

I smile sheepishly. "Sorry." Taking a deep breath, I slip back into 'stern, adult' Buffy and out of 'immature, passed Idaho driving test by showing her instructor a little leg' Buffy. "What do you want, Claire?" 

"To make a difference." She sighs and gives me a tiny smile, "It's a good fight and I wanna help."

"Then it's time to start acting like it."

**

I guess bar fightin makes ya hungry. 

I'm nursing another cup of coffee (at this point, 95% of my blood has been replaced with Java) as Claire devours the ham and cheese omelet on her plate like there's no tomorrow.

"This your first time tasting food?" I smile wryly.

She gives me this huge smile that lights up her pixie face -- complete with freckles scrunching -- and it almost makes the still present desire to strangle her disappear.

Almost.

"I got a little side tracked – totally missed out on tasting TJ's famous wings."

"Cute," I snicker. "So how did…"

"I was out for some post-patrolling fun and my ride decided my ass looked cold and needed his hands to warm it up," she says nonchalantly and puts her grubby mitts on a piece of uneaten toast on my plate. "You weren't gonna eat this, were you?"

"Knock yourself out, Sparky."

"Thanks."

I take a measly bite of my hashbrowns (I would've gotten the grits if I knew what the hell a grit was). "And how does Daddy McMullen feel about his one and only little girl trolling bars and hanging out with bikers?"

"He's out of town," Claire says. There's a tiny flash of sadness in her eyes, but it's gone before I can call her on it. "But, I like to think he'd be _most_ happy."

"But tomorrow's Christmas Eve…"

She shrugs. "Business is business."

And just another reason for Christmas Nazi to put in her bid to have this holiday eliminated…

I nod and sip more coffee like the adult Buffy I'm supposed to be, but the five-year-old Buffy who has more memories of waving 'goodbye' to her father in an airport than of playing 'Candyland' with him is internally rearing her ugly head. I understand more, than, I'm sure, Claire thinks I do. Papa Summers used to specialize in the same type of 'business trips'.

"You _do_ know what that means, don't you?" I ask.

She sighs heavily. "I'm crashing with my Watcher for the holidays?"

"See," I smile sardonically, "you really _are_ learning."

**

I have to admit there is a certain coolness about being a Watcher. Of course I don't have the truly bitchin fashion sense that Giles did in his early days (snerk – if only they made tweed mini-skirts), but what I do have are training exercises – the pointless ones he used to love torturing me with:

"Buffy, I don't need to learn how to use the quaterstaff! I'm not going to be battling the Sheriff of Nottingham!"

God, how I love carrying on the tradition.

"Nonsense!" I exclaim slapping Claire on the back (I'm feeling very Giles-y – damn, I kinda wish I wore glasses). "A Slayer must be skilled in all weapons," I quote like a textbook and my Slayer and a half gives me a look. I shrug, grinning like a mad woman. "Plus, Puffy!Andrew is just damn funny."

Andrew scrunches up his face and drops his arms in a huff. "Can we hurry and get this over with?! These pads are itchy."

I chuckle. "Show me whatcha got, kidlet," I say to Claire and then carefully move out of the way and take a seat on the nearby pommel horse. 

The old house out in the suburbs of Boise that Dawn and I found has this huge basement and with the help of a visiting Xander, we were able to turn it into a Slayer's training wet dream –

"Ow!" Andrew shrieks, "I wasn't ready, Claire!"

Sadly, we still haven't found the right dummy to practice on.

"Buffy! Seasons Greetings from La La Land!" Dawn calls out as she tramps down the basement steps, phone in hand. She tosses it to me with a smirk. "Make sure you tell Angel, there's no way I'm going to forget 'Joy to the World' was blasting in the background when he called."

" 'Joy to the World'? What happened to vamps don't celebrate Christmas as a rule?" I say into the phone, amused. "Claire, don't stick out your elbow!"

"Wolfram & Hart Christmas party," he grumbles like only Angel can. (Angel and party? Two words in the English language that have no business anywhere _near_ each other)

"Wolfram & Hart throws Christmas parties?! Must be one helluva secret Santa swap."

"Actually, the real Santa Claus is showing up – he's a client."

"Santa's real?"

"Yeah," Angel says seriously. "Did you know he disembowels children?"

I pause. "Wow – kinda puts the 'he knows when you've been naughty' thing in a whole new, and much scarier light."

"Anyway, I was just calling to…"

"Awkwardly wish me a merry Christmas?" I chortle.

"Exactly," Angel says and I can hear the smile that must be on his face, in his voice. "Dawn says your not celebrating this year?"

"Just call me 'Ebeneezer'," I tell him dryly. "I'm just not rapt with the holiday spirit this year. It was more mom's holiday, anyway." Taking a deep breath to stave off the lump in my throat and the tears that come with said lump, I manage to laugh, "And the year after, Anya kind of took over on that front. Worst. Party. _Ever._" The memory of Ahn's disastrous '_Christmas Spectacular 2001_!' makes me smile. "You should've been there – Willow was mope-y from her break up with Tara, and jittery from the cold-turkey magic quitting. Xander burned the cookies to a shade of black that I didn't know occurred in nature. Anya wrote her name on _every_ slip of paper in the secret Santa box, so she's the only one who got any presents. Oh, and the highlight was a very NC-17 game of Pictionary in which my little sister was asked to draw a 'hymen' before I pulled her away and made her go upstairs."

"I'm sorry I missed that," Angel chuckles.

"Yeah," I sigh, "surprisingly, Spike was the only one who kept me sane throughout that whole…"

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"Oi – tall, dark, and forehead! The French-onion dip's lookin a little sparse over here!"

Okay – maybe after my teensy weensy hallucination in the car earlier this morning, this could be looked at as just another bout of Buffy insanity, but the thing is, I _know_. 

I _know. _

Spike's is the most recognizable cockney on the fucking planet – I _know_ I just heard him in the background, despite 'Winter Wonderland' playing, despite the sound of numerous, faceless voices, despite the fact he's dead for keeps – I heard _him._

Angel's calling my name, asking if I'm still there and I drop the phone.

**__**

To Be Continued…

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	4. A Bleached Vamp In a Pear Tree

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Part: 4 of 5

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A Bleached Vamp in a Pear Tree…

"Oh my god! I don't believe this!"

Telling Dawn Spike isn't dead – well any deader than we've ever known him to be, was harder than I could have imagined…

"I translated the whole friggen paragraph wrong!" Dawn whips her chocolate brown hair over her shoulders and tosses the French book in my direction. "Here, you take a crack at it. My brain's refusing to register any kind of funny accent marks at this time."

Which is why four hours after having what, was possibly the most awkward conversation in Sprint history with Spike, I _still_ haven't told Dawn he's kinda alive.

"Oh – no, no, no," I ease the book towards her, "French and I are un-mixy. In fact, my entire grasp of that language revolves around knowing 'fromage' is cheese, and telling you that a cow will touch you a week from Thursday." I pause, smiling thoughtfully, "I could probably tell you the cheese will touch you a week from Thursday, too…"

Dawn huffs, "Shi…" I give her a pretty good impression of the eye mom used to scare the crap out of me with and she quickly amends her choice of words. "Poop! I was going to say 'poop'."

"Uh-huh." I grin.

"Besides, homework over the holidays is just wrong! It totally defeats the purpose of the word 'holiday'." Dawn gives me this sarcastic grin that eerily resembles the one Spike never seems to stop sporting, complete with head tilt (so, this is what he was teaching my lil sis, that summer I was worm food – annoying Buffy-101). "Did I tell you how much I _love_ private school?"

I shrug. "'S not my fault the courts forced dad to grow a conscience and he started generously doling out that back child support."

"If I get field hockey knees, I'm _so_ killing him," she grumbles.

"I also didn't tell _you_ to take French and Spanish at the same time." I waggle my finger at Dawn and 'tsk', "Just because you can translate demon languages doesn't mean you can 'parle vouz' with the best of them."

Dawnie ever-so elegantly gives me the finger, and mumbles a curse under her breath as she once again buries her face in that French book, and now I get to go back to wracking my brain for ways to break this news to her as gently as possible.

Maybe I should keep my mouth shut and let her find out when Spike's on our doorstep in what can only be a matter of hours. The healthy sadist in me sees that situation rapt with comedy –

"Ugh! _Why_ are they still teaching French! Don't we hate the French?!"

"Just their fries and toast," I joke. 

On the other hand, Dawn passing out or screaming at me with, a, pitch only dogs can hear – not as funny as previously thought. 

But if I tell her now she'll want answers to questions I don't have. After gathering the wits to pick up the phone again (and listening to Angel and Spike argue over talking to me) -- my conversation with Spike must've lasted a full five seconds with him plainly saying: _"I need to see you"_ and me managing to squeak out _"ok"_ before hanging up. I don't know the why or the how when it comes to him being back and honestly, I didn't have the presence of mind to ask. 

Andrew's gone out to pick up to pick up dinner and Claire passed out on the living room couch right after I ended training for the day. 

Dawnie's smiling at me proudly pointing at the book. "I've got it! Ms. Dule wants to buy a sack of apples and I'm supposed to tell her that the grocery is all out of apples – I think. No, wait, maybe I'm the one who wants to buy the apples from Ms. Dule and she's all out." She tilts the book in my direction. "That word _is_ 'apples' isn't it…?"

"Spike's alive," I blurt without thinking (so much for gentleness).

She looks at me curiously and blinks.

"As dumb jokes go, that one's not very funny, Buffy."

"It's not – it's not a joke." I take a deep breath and pull my lips in tight before adding, "He's in LA. He's coming here. I don't know how it happened."

I'm prepared for anything – the high 'doggy pitch' scream, bear hugs, supreme denial, and even lots and lots of tears. The two of them have this bond that I can't even begin to understand. I spot a box of Kleenex just to the right of me, and I put it in the middle of us. I can't let her get weepy-face and wipe it all over that cashmere sweater (_my_ cashmere sweater).

Dawn studies my face for what seems like an eternity and then smiles and gives a nod of her head. "Ok."

The moment feels almost anticlimactic compared to all of the situations my fevered imagination cooked up. And I'm glad.

"Ok," I say with a smile of my own.

Who needs a weepy, screaming Dawn anyway?

**

"What is the Populist party's base of support, platform issues, and vision of the role of government?"

"You're actually expecting an answer?!"

"Only, if you're actually expecting to pass history – oh! Buffy, I'm sorry…!" Dawn shouts. Funny how it takes the me crashing into a tombstone to remind her we're on a slay/study mission tonight – _slay_ being the operative word…

"Roll!" Dawn announces and Claire drops the books as she scrambles to her feet. The, beefy vamp standing over me gets distracted by the call and turns to see my Slay-gal in training running towards him – Bingo.

"What the hell happened to only dealing with one!" he growls, still fixed on Claire and that gives me the window I need to do a sweep kick, knocking his legs out from under him. He hits the ground hard and I quickly toss my stake to Claire,

"You really gotta learn how to accept change," I pun and then get a mouth full of vampire dust for my troubles when Junior stakes him. Coughing, 'Next Generation' helps me to my feet and gives me a lopsided smile.

"Dawn's rigorous with the studying, I'm sorry…"

"I could've taken him," I say dusting off my jacket. "The point is for you to make the kill. Knowing exactly where the heart is, so that there's no mistakes – _again_."

"You can barely see that scar on Dawn's neck – right Dawn?!"

Dawn tightens the scarf around her neck and gives Claire and I this withering look. "Yeah. Sure."

"Lets move onto the other side of the cemetery – things are pretty much dead, dead here." I take what has to be five steps before stopping so suddenly Dawn runs into the back of me.

"Thanks a lot for helping me add to my klutz-o-meter." I hear Dawn grumble but I ignore her (she was already off the charts on the klutz-o-whatever before tonight), and tilt my head in the direction of this crypt to the right of us and smile. "Since when did you get so lurky?!" I yell.

I can sense Dawn and Claire are exchanging those 'what kind of drugs is she on?' looks, but the moment Spike walks from behind the crypt, I look a little less like I'm tweaking on shrooms. I know Dawnie's having some kind of 'oh my god' reaction to seeing him, and I'm sure Claire's face holds a 'who the fuck are you/wait you're a vampire/why are we happy and not staking him?' look, but I don't see them – as horrible as that sounds. 

Right now, it's only Spike and I – and I get the feeling things are the same from his perspective too.

"Hangin' out with your poofy ex," he yells back, smirking as he comes closer. "I haven't quite picked up the power of broodin' yet from Yoda – but give us a week or so, I'll have it down."

"How did you…"

"Find she who hangs out in cemeteries?" he chuckles. "I had the taxi driver take me to all of the graveyards in town. Only ten," Spike scoffs, "Sunnyhell had this place beat hands down."

(There's so much I need to say, that I should say…) I find myself grinning. "Corporeal looks good on you, Spike."

Eh, there's always time for that later.

**__**

To Be Continued…


	5. The Night Before The Night Before Chris...

__

Part: 5 of 5 – we're all done people! *wipes sweat off forehead*

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who took the time to review this little dog and pony show! I honestly wasn't expecting as big of a reaction as I got and was pleasantly surprised. You made this even more of a joy to write. And yes, I do realize I'm a sappy bastard, and will be moving on with the story now… *grin*

**

**__**

The Night Before** – The Night Before Christmas**

Andrew announces from the kitchen, that, KFC was sadly all out of original chicken and he had to settle on a bucket of extra crispy (sacrilegious!) as we walk in the door. 

Spike's right behind me and even if our playful, graveyard banter carried over into a banter-y ride back to the outskirts of bumfuck Dawn and I call 'home' (after motoring around in a DeSoto for god knows how long, he's got the _nerve_ to insult my Caprice!). And, a hastily, thrown together explanation of who is to Claire (devoid of any real details – of course) things feel slightly awkward.

He's in my home. Only this isn't Revello. There's no huge oak tree in the yard, or comfortable porch with the swing. I don't have bay windows or my mom's decorating sense. This is the tiny house wedged in a cul-de-sac on 1523 Marshall Drive. It's drafty, but surprisingly comfortable. There's an attic, but spiders have claimed that land for breeding, and the fireplace that we won't use because of its habit to shoot the smoke inside instead of up and out of the cute, little stack.

This is surreal. And keeping things light between us did a damn good job fooling me into thinking nothings changed…

"Extra crispy?! That's gross, Andrew! Who the hell eats extra crispy!" Claire yells, tossing her coat on the nearby sofa. 

Heh. That's right. Claire, Andrew, and Dawn – no Willow, Xander, and Giles. Boise – not Sunnydale. Full-time Watcher, only a slayer when I need to be.

But _everything's_ changed.

I catch Spike giving me this look and he mouths "Andrew?"

"Yes, _that_ Andrew." I nod. "He lives here."

"With the two of you?!" He looks between Dawn and I with an almost scary protective glint and I laugh. What? It _is_ Andrew he's getting all-caveman about! Andrew, who has Leaf Garret records and watches Sparticus like every Sunday…

"That's right," I say smiling teasingly, "with the two of us. Me and Andrew, doing unspeakably naughty things. Not appropriate for children under the age of thirteen types of things…"

Spike rolls his eyes. "You're not funny."

I chortle. "Beg to differ."

The kitchen door suddenly swings open and Andrew breezes out wearing an apron (I've told him a million times – not necessary when you didn't cook). He doesn't seem to notice the rest of us, just Claire, whom he's yelling – or whining at as the case may be.

"What did you want me to do?! They were all out of your precious original! You know, extra crispy is _highly_ underrated – just because it wasn't the Colonel's recipe doesn't mean…" Andy suddenly stops trying to sell us on extra crispy and goes paler faster than I knew a human being could –

"It's the First!" he shrieks pointing at Spike. "The First is back and trying to kill us all!"

"Andrew…" I begin calmly trying hard not laugh, "he's not the First."

"I'm not the First, you git," Spike puts in for good measure.

"But – but, Spike's dead!"

"Still am."

"He – he died valiantly to save the world…!"

I get a great view of the egotistical pride that washes over Spike's face and have to roll my eyes. Like he's the _only_ one who's ever done that…

"Yeah," he beams, "kinda did, didn't I?"

"Andrew…" I start slowly so not as to further confuse my apron wearing, little wannabe sidekick, "Spike's not the First, see?" I demonstrate by patting Spike on the shoulder. "Touchable."

Spike gives me this lecherous grin. "Damn right I am."

Quickly, I remove my hand and try very hard to fight the flaming red that wants to creep up in my cheeks. Stupid cheeks. God, for a girl who's had sex in positions that would make a French whore blush, I sure can be an amazing prude sometimes.

That's me – Biddy Buffy with the bible in my right hand and huge Mayflower buckles on my shoes.

Andrew audibly breathes a sigh of relief. "Oh – I thought…" he chuckles. "So that means, you're the _real_ Spike?"

Spike's looking mildly annoyed with Andy. "Yeah, last I checked."

Chef!Andrew lets out what can only be called a squeak – a joyful one, anyway, and before I and certainly Spike knows it, Andrew's wrapped his arms around the bleached wonder in a bear hug. Heh, I even think I see tears.

"Spike! Oh, man I, missed you!"

I'm trying to fend it off, but Dawnie and Claire are laughing – and loud. Lucky scamps. I appear to only be slightly amused, can't blow my cool and let out the witch cackle like I wanna.

"Yeah, yeah, missed you too, Andrew," Spike says absently as he untangles Andrew's arms from around his waist.

"Wow!" Andrew exclaims whipping his eyes. "This is just – just great! Who's up for some KFC?"

**

"So what was it like being a ghost? You could walk through walls and stuff, right?"

Spike smiles at Dawn and takes swig from his mug-o-blood. "Yeah."

"That is so cool," she gushes.

"Not as fun as it sounds though, Bit. After a while everyone got hip to the ghostly lurking routine." He shakes his head, "Not even the Six-Million-Dollar-Man could see through those shower curtains Fred put up…"

"Fred?" I hear myself asking aloud, even though this brief moment of unwanted and jealous panic was originally intended for the confines of my head only. It better be a bulky, greasy, trucker with man bits named Fred…

Spike gives me that smile and I want snap his neck. "Yep. Fred." (annoying vampire…)

He sets the mug down on the coffee table and gestures towards my garland-y fireplace. "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve, innit? What's with the pitiful show?"

"Hey!" Andrew shouts, offended.

"That's the only _show_ we get to have, according to the Scrooge who's inhabited my sister's body." (Oh that Dawn, quick with the irritating teenage sarcasm)

"I don't feel like doing the Christmas thing! Is there something wrong with that?!" I yell, suddenly feeling the need to defend myself. Apparently, Christmas Nazi's been, locked, in a room with people who need gaudy lights and Trans Siberian Orchestra playing.

Spike snorts. "Who shit in your eggnog?" 

"Ugh! Why do I have to hear this over and _over_ from you people! I'm not in the mood for the 'ho-ho-ho', 'we wish you a merry', 'birth of saviors', crap this year! Can't we just accept that and move on?!"

There's a silence in the room that almost makes Christmas Nazi run full speed back to her Gestapo headquarters and then Spike jumps to his feet and grabs my arm:

"Come on," he says pulling me up.

"What? Where are we going?!"

"To get a tree."

I groan. "If I wanted a goddamn tree don't you think…"

"You have no choice in the matter, Slayer – er – Watcher," Spike amends with a smile as he drags me towards the door. "Grab your coat. It's colder than a witches tit here."

"But, all of the lots are closed," Dawn speaks up, "and it's like the day before – the day _before_ Christmas, all of the good ones are long gone."

Spike smiles brilliantly. "Got a chainsaw?"

**

I can't _even_ begin to tell you how illegal this is. 

If you look in the woods off of I-17, expensive Monolo Blahnick (guilty!dad buys great presents) boots deep in icy slush, jacket pulled tight and scarf practically wrapped to her forehead, is shivering, impossibly cold me. To the right of me, follow the ungodly loud whir of a chainsaw notice the leather duster and the shockingly white hair – and you've got the deranged Santa with the cigarette in his mouth, which kidnapped me.

"Come on, you poncy son of a bitch!"

I wonder if anyone's ever actually done time for stealing one of Boise's, precious Douglas Firs…?

The wood chips are flyin and I ease closer towards him, arms crossed. "Are you quite finished?" I say once the chainsaw noise stops.

He shoots me an annoyed look. "Yeah. I figured, the tree looks so lovely still mounted to this stump here, that we can decorate it here, and come back and visit it."

"For those of us with a body temp of 98.6, it's a little on the fucking freezing side." I cut my eyes at him.

"News flash, luv, vampire's aren't immune to weather change." Spike snickers, "And you call yourself a watcher…"

"I'm new to the gig, ok! I've got 'new watcher' smell all over me!"

All Spike does is grin before he revs the motor and goes right back murdering trees to hang ornaments and candy canes on later (sigh). Finally, the damn thing topples so loudly that it jogs my memory of seeing an 'All Trespassers Will be Shot' sign back near the highway.

"All right, help me load her up!" he calls, voice straining as he picks up his end of the tree.

"This thing'll never fit in the house," I grumble and ow! I bring my poor finger to my lips. Stupid needles.

"We'll make it fit."

"Why are you so gung ho about a stupid tree?"

Spike raises his scarred brow. "And why are you so against it?"

I drop my end in the slush and stare at him. You know I _really_ hate that about Spike! I can lie to everyone else, my own sister included but the vampire who bleaches his hair and still wears tight, black jeans like 1985 never ended, sees right through all of my bullshit. 

It's disconcerting being such an open book for someone. It's almost as if Spike's got x-ray vision and he can burn through all of the walls Protective!Buffy spent time carefully putting up for this exact purpose! So you couldn't see what was behind them.

"Willow and Giles are in England," I hear myself begin and I want to stake him. Who the hell needs a therapist when I've got Spike around free of charge? "Xander lives in Modesto," I sigh. "Mom's gone and so's Anya…" I get quiet and swallow one of those painful lumps in my throat, "thought you were gone too, just eight hours ago." I sniffle and smile sadly. "What's there to celebrate? All I can think about are the people I've lost and the ones who are oceans away. I miss California, I miss Sunnydale, I miss being the 'one girl in all the world…'. I miss the way things used to be."

I let out a humorless laugh and shake my head. "Guess I don't adapt to change very well."

Spike nods and is silent for a long while before saying, "No one does. Just get used to it, is all."

I sniffle again and give him a nod of my own. "Ready to cave in the roof of my car with this huge bastard?" I ask with a smile.

A big grin breaks out on his face and it makes me laugh again – but I still want to stake his undead ass for making me say all of that aloud.

Stupid vampire.

"Lead the way, luv."

We get Dougie Fir strapped to the roof of my car with _almost_ no problem (the right passenger side window has a lovely new crack in it) and jump inside from the bitter cold, into an even _more_ bitter car kind of cold (why does that always happen?).

I turn the key in the ignition and my poor baby does this half hum half sputter thing before it goes kaput. I glance at Spike, worried, and try it again (come on, baby, work for mama – come on, come on…) and this time there's more sputter than hum. I shut my eyes tight and take a deep breath. The engine won't turn over – it's like thirty below and the engine won't turn over…

Scrooge was never visited by the Ghost of Christmas Car Repair by any chance, was he?

"Oh this is just great," Spike says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "You know, this would've _never_ happened with the DeSoto…"

"Shut up about your stupid car, ok!" I snap. What? I'm trying to make mental bargains with my ride here – sarcasm only interrupts it. (Please, please, please, if you start for Buffy, I promise to never let you get bone dry on oil or let Dawn eat a chilly cheese dog in your front seat _ever again_) I turn the key one last time and I get the same thing…

My head hits the steering wheel. "Son of a bitch…"

"Get on your mobile! Call up Andrew and have him whip down here in his Fiesta."

"Phone's at home, charging the way stupid mobiles do," I grumble.

"Son of a bitch," Spike echoes my earlier sentiments.

"We're stuck!" I throw my hands up. "It's too cold, this thing won't start up and I don't have a phone…" I turn to him, eyes wide and full of piss and vinegar, "I'm going to freeze to death! And it's _your_ fault!"

"My fault!" he says with disbelief.

(what did I stutter?) "Damn right it's your fault! If you hadn't dragged me out here for this stupid tree, we would be stuck right now!"

"Ohh, I see – every time Spike tries to do a good thing, you throw it back in his face!"

"My window's cracked, it's thirty three degrees and my hands and feet are numb!" I scowl. "In. Your. Face."

Spike suddenly turns, looks back into my backseat then unhooks his seatbelt.

"What are you doing?" 

"You've got a blanket back here," he says as he climbs into the back.

"I'm _not_ spending the night out here!"

"Fine, enjoy your walk back home."

I sit there for a moment, (pride just won't let me scramble for the blanket right away) before finally climbing in the back along with him.

**

It's snowing now. In the few rare occasions I've seen snow, my thoughts on the matter were usually of the 'Ooh, pretty' variety. Now, they're little white flakes of death…

__

Here Lies Buffy Summers – Daughter to Joyce, Sister to Dawn, Slayer of Demons. Died valiantly in a Chevy Caprice. She Will Be Missed.

"I'm soo gonna kill you." My teeth chatter as I talk.

Spike stretches and yawns a little. "That one never gets old." He smiles. "You could curl up right here, you know?" He pats his side and for a brief second, I think I see what can only be fear flicker across his features. The fear of rejection. (sigh) I'm so proud that I worked to further instill that in him…

"Your body temp's gotta be like sixty degrees," I quip but find myself curling up against him anyway. I pack the blanket in around us and snuggle him to the point where my shoulder should be embedded inside of him.

"Seventy eight, still a lot warmer than it is out there," Spike chuckles and wraps an arm around me.

"Yeah," I say with a contented sigh.

We're silent for a long while and I catch myself unconsciously doing the couple-y thing of tracing a finger on Spike's chest. Damn finger's got a mind of it's own…

"How did it happen?" I ask softly. I think I'm ready to have this talk now. The _private_ one, might as well – neither one of us is going anywhere right now.

"Dunno, really," Spike sighs, running a hand up and down my arm (god I missed that). "My essence or ashes or whatever was sucked into that sodding amulet. Wound up at Wolfram & Hart all nicely packaged."

"So you've been alive all this time…?"

"Casper me was bound to the law firm – so technically, I've only been alive and touchable for a month."

"Oh."

"I would've come to you sooner, Buffy if I could of," he says and takes an unnecessary breath, "you know that."

I nod.

"Before today, I thought you were still in Europe."

I bolt up. "Angel didn't tell you…?" I frown, of _course_ Angel didn't tell him I'd set up shop in Idaho, "oh yeah, that's right – macho vampire pissing contest. Almost forgot." (that gelled lunkhead.)

I settle back against him and pause for a minute. (I don't know where the stones are coming from to get me to ask this question) "Why didn't you believe me when I said I loved you?"

"Because, you didn't mean it." Spike says it so casually that it stings and I have to clear my throat before speaking again,

"You don't…"

"Did you?" he interrupts me and there he goes with his super vampire – eyeballs, seeing right through liar Buffy.

"No," I say weakly. "I thought you needed to hear it."

"I did."

"I may not love you now, but Spike, it's not impossible." I sit up again and stare him directly in the face. I feel the need for some serious honesty tonight. Mark your calendars, an event like this only happens every seventy-five years. "The feelings are there. Strong, amazingly indescribable feelings that are stupid for me to deny so I won't do it any more. But, I'm not quite ready to love back. See, I'm like cookie dough…"

Spike rolls his eyes and gives me a playful smile. "Bleeding Christ, not the cookie analogy!"

I frown. "Angel told you about that?"

"Oh yeah," he chortles.

(thanks a lot Super Forehead) "Oh."

Spike laughs and pulls me closer. "Don't worry, Betty Crocker, I'm prepared to wait on you to bake all the way before I – eat – cookie Buffy." The lecherous grin is back and so are my flaming cheeks. With that statement, I think Biddy Buffy just passed out in the fifth pew of the Holy Rollers Sanctified Church…

"You need time to get used to the changes."

I smile and kiss him. What I intended on being a brief peck, turns into at least fifteen seconds of real smooching. There's tongue and a few moans, and a nice warm melt-y feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes me forget we're stuck in a freezing car.

I pull back (at this point, the dopey smile won't leave) and bury my face in the crook of Spike's neck. "You know, the adjusting would go a lot faster if you dropped by on all the holidays."

"I'm thinking you're right – anything I can do to help."

"Mmm-hmm. Which is why you've _got_ to stay for New Years…"

"Oh, definitely."

"And we can't forget about Martin Luther King's birthday…"

"He was a great man."

"Presidents Day…"

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Valentine's Day – only cause it's, you know, national…"

"Right."

"St. Patrick's Day's important…"

"Oh, right, pet. Don't forget Ash Wednesday."

"Easter – when's Veterans Day?"

It's hard to deal at first when life suddenly changes on you, but I think I'm finally starting to get used to it.

**__**

THE END


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